Silent Nights
by Stardust-and-Sin
Summary: After a long, trying day the Doctor realizes that Rose has not only established a nightly tradition, but somehow pulled him into it as well. Just a short piece of fluff, written for the "Speechless" prompt as part of the I Bring Life Project over on tumblr.


_**Author's Note: So this is just something quick I wrote for the prompt "speechless" as part of the I Bring Life project over on tumblr. A bit of Nine/Rose fluff, because I love Nine and he needs some attention. :)**_

_**Spoilers: None, reference to Dalek if you squint.**_

_**Disclaimer: Don't I wish they were mine!**_

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He had never minded the night before – he enjoyed the stillness that fell as a hush over the TARDIS – but lately he had found that he was starting to prefer it to any other time of day. There was something private and comforting about the darkness; sometimes he wondered if that said something about himself that he wasn't ready to admit to. There was, however, a new reason that he enjoyed the evenings: Rose Tyler.

He felt as though he knew nothing and everything about his young companion, and the contradiction intrigued him.

The Doctor had been roaming the TARDIS one night when he'd come across Rose, tucked quietly into a plush armchair with a cup of tea and a small book. She hadn't noticed him, and although he hadn't wanted to admit it at first, he'd spied on her. There was something incongruous about seeing this young girl, so full of energy and laughter and zest during the day, curled up and wearing the night like a blanket. He had stood there for a long time that first night, wondering what thoughts kept her so oblivious to his presence – and perhaps even a little indignant that she seemed so perfectly unaware of him.

He had been surprised to find that Rose had not only established a nightly routine, but had unwittingly pulled him into it.

He'd started finding reasons to "happen" upon her every night, and every night passed much the same: she would brew herself some tea and retreat to "her" arm chair – an old wingback thing covered in green damask – with the same nondescript black book.

Oh yes, she had drawn him in: slowly, quietly … completely.

A part of the Doctor had felt guilty that he was intruding on her quiet time until, perhaps entirely by chance, she'd confessed that she enjoyed having him there. So the routine was established; there was no set meeting time, no discussion or even mention of their plans. The gentle hush that signaled night time within the TARDIS would fall, and he would undoubtedly find himself next to her, taking the steaming cup of tea she always had waiting for him.

Tonight, however – tonight was different. Instead of the green armchair, he found her reclining on the couch, back braced against one of the arms. There were two cups still steaming on the table in front of her, but her familiar book was nowhere in sight.

He was too tired to question the change.

The day had been long and trying; the shock of seeing his old nemesis beneath the Salt Plains of Utah had exacted a heavy toll on him. He was tired, discouraged and depressed, but seeing Rose waiting for him on the couch made his heart lift automatically.

She turned her head and their eyes connected; she smiled softly and shucked her head softly, a silent call for him to join her. He didn't make her wait long; his long legs carried him to her in two short strides and he nearly collapsed into the cushions next to her.

They sat in silence for long minutes. He wanted to say something, to try and explain himself to her – his grief at the loss of his people, the rage that made his blood boil when he'd set eyes on that Dalek – but no words would come. The Doctor sighed and passed a hand over his tired eyes.

The feel of a hand on his arm drew his attention to his companion; Rose was looking at him with an expression that he couldn't quite seem to place, but it made his pulse jump just the same. He glanced down at her hand, that tiny hand, and would have covered it with one of his own if she hadn't tugged demandingly on his sleeve.

"C'mon then," she murmured.

In typical Rose fashion, she seemed to know exactly what he needed – what he wanted. He let her pull him down until his head came to rest on her chest, the sound of her single heartbeat drumming in his ear. The Doctor wanted to protest: he was nearly twice her size and he feared he would crush her.

His resistance didn't last long; his long arms seemed to snake around her waist of their own accord, until he soon found himself laying half on her and half on the couch. His eyes slid closed at long last. He felt her arms curl around his shoulders, holding him to her, and the intimacy of the moment stunned him.

He concentrated on that single, strong heartbeat, allowing the steady cadence to lull him to sleep. That heartbeat was becoming the song of his life, the one thing he desperately wanted to continue even until the end of the world – every world, in every galaxy.

He wondered if he'd ever be able to tell her that.


End file.
